


Part III: The Frost

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [9]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Married Couple, Mentor/Protégé
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hisana checks on the Kuchiki Family's investments.  Rukia and Renji catch up.  Byakuya and Hisana discuss strategies for the next ethical inquiry. Rukia demonstrates her newly acquired release before her mentors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part III: The Frost

* * *

 

**Part III:  Peripatetic Winds**

_The winter storm_  
Hid in the bamboo grove  
And quieted away.

_–Matsuo Basho_

* * *

 

**_Approximately 24 years later…_ **

* * *

 

The sun beats down on her in heavy oppressive waves.  The sunlight is bright and merciless; it sears the flesh, turning it an enflamed shade of pink, and it heats the body, pulling beads of perspiration from her skin. 

Shielding her eyes with her hand, Hisana glances up, skyward.  The blinding light hammering her retinas is no match for her ironclad will.  She studies the tower looming over her like a curator studies a priceless objet d’art.   Indeed, with her gaze and her gaze alone she hopes to exhume the deep secret buried in stone.

To no avail.

She turns up wanting. 

Sighing, she refuses defeat.  No.  She _will_ find the source of her consternation even if it requires her to stand and to stare into that enigmatic black rock for the rest of her long years.

Circling, with eyes laser-focused, she steps into the structure’s long inky shadow.  Her hand remains against her brow.  Just in case.

“Lady Kuchiki,” one of the engineers chirps beside her, “are you well?”

She gives him a stern sideways glance.  What he means is, _Shouldn’t you be running off?_    She turns away, jerking her chin up so she can better view the edifice.

“Tell me,” she begins, tossing his question aside, “why does the signal skip?” 

 _Skip_. 

It is the best—no, the _only—_ way she can describe the strange but sudden intermittent signal loss that occurs every fifth hour, on the hour.  It is the most reliable way of keeping time, she has determined.  It is much better at keeping time than any of the priceless clocks in her manor, at least. 

Lucky for her, she does not have to elaborate on her nonstandard terminology.  The engineer easily comprehends her meaning.  “The energy source, milady.  Sometimes, it overloads.  We are working to create a more efficient generator.  It’ll fix the problem.”

“Umm,” she hums to herself, annoyed. 

It isn’t the engineer who bothers her; although, if he won’t stop hounding her about her health, her assessment of him might quickly change.  The disruptions in signal and the consequences of those disruptions perturb her.  The consequence of the disruptions is, namely, _death_.  Lots and lots of _death_.  Worse yet, the death is unaccounted, which runs counter to one of the main _purposes_ of having a monitoring system—to detect sources and areas of violent aggression. 

 _Maybe Lord Byakuya is correct_ , she thinks to herself, but her eyes betray her when they remain locked on the tower.   _Maybe it is all just strange happenstance?  Coincidence._

It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.  Violence occurs _everywhere_ , and it strikes at any time.  If the locals aren’t killing each other, then there are hollow attacks, or, worse, government sanctioned _exterminations_.  Perhaps it isn’t tampering.  Perhaps there are no dark machinations at hand.  _Perhaps_ …

She exhales a shaky breath.  “Do we have data before and after these disruptions?”

The engineer nods his head.  “Yes, milady.”

“Would you mind sharing that data with me?”

His eyes widen to the size of saucers, and the color flees from his face.  “All of it?” he asks, incredulous.

She stifles the sigh building in her throat.  Must she repeat herself?  “All of it,” she answers in a clear crisp tone.

It is far too hot to be performing complex tasks such as breathing, let alone _thinking_.  Ordering employees around was asking too much of her at the moment.

Tiredly, she rolls her head back, hoping to release the tension pulling the fibers of her shoulders tight, like tiny steel cords.  The relief, however, is short lived.  Her mind begins to make up for the languidness of her body, and her gaze snaps up.  Reflexively, a strange flickering movement catches her attention and drags it away from the tower. 

 _A cat_ , Hisana observes, eyes squinting into the blazing sun. 

It is a proud black cat.  It sits in its strange feline way with its strange feline sort of confidence atop a straw thatched roof. 

If Byakuya were a cat, Hisana thinks, he would be _this_ cat.  Its fur is shiny.  Its muscles are lean.  Its eyes are clear and probing as if it is inspecting everything and judging everyone below it. 

She always seems to run across it.  It is a recent thing, but a thing nonetheless.  It lingers near the towers.  The cat must find the new construction curious.

 _And you know what they say about cats and curiosity...._  

She sighs and brushes the stray observation aside.

“Damn cat,” the engineer grouses in a harsh tone.  He gives an agitated wave of his hand as if his arm could extend out long enough to swat the animal down from its high perch.  “Can’t keep the thing away from the towers.  Don’t get it.”

Briefly, Hisana wonders why it matters.  The cat is an inquisitive observer.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  It doesn’t appear to be harming anything.

Her stare averts from the feline, and it drops to the dry red clay that stretches across the South 38th.  Silently, she thinks about generators, signal loss, data, and how to ensure the project’s success.  Suddenly, all the possibilities, probabilities, and likelihoods begin to swirl in her mind like a whirlwind of petals.  

Trapped in thought, she pivots on the balls of her feet.  Her eyes don’t perceive it, but instinct alerts her to the sizable retinue of servants that waits for her a few paces away.  When she finally emerges to the surface of reality, she frowns at the sight of so many guards. 

She feels like a prisoner. 

Her husband’s order comes from a good place.  Of that fact, she tries to convince herself.  But, a quick glance tells her that Byakuya’s paranoia is unsubstantiated.  A battalion of Shinigami buzzes around her and the engineers.  Half of the men mobilize in some strange procession, looking very professional and very on point.  The other half hang back, on reserve. 

None of it makes sense to her.  Never has.  Never will.  And she prefers it that way. 

All she knows are the towers have proven to be a lightning rod for hollows, which, while convenient for the Squads, is not particularly convenient for the project’s sake.  A strange symbiotic, relationship, however, has kept the engineers secure and the Shinigami busy and _happy_.  Or, at least, this particular group seems happy to face certain battle.

Hisana sighs in dismay before returning her attention to the three servants and the five guards. 

How troublesome. 

She can barely tolerate the cavalcade of handmaidens and guards that accompany her when she is on official business with her husband. In Rukongai, however, the party makes her look like an easy target.  However, her husband insists the attendants escort her _everywhere_ ever since she accidently wandered into a hailstorm of kido and steel between hollows and Shinigami. 

Come to think of it, the black cat was there then, too. 

Reflexively, her eyes flick to the cat.  It returns her stare, seemingly having anticipated her gaze.  It brandishes a meaningful look, but it is only a cat, she reminds herself. 

Briefly, she wonders if it remembers the incident. 

 _Probably not_. 

“Black cats are good luck,” Hisana states matter-of-factly as she crosses the cracked, parched ground toward her attendants.

“Really?” the engineer cries in disbelief.  “I’m sure this one only brings misfortune on its heels.”  He sneers at the animal.

Hisana stops, mid-stride.  “Why do you say that?”

“Every time anyone sees the damn thing, something­—”

An explosion booms in the distance, stealing the breath right out of Hisana’s chest. 

For stability, she crouches down and places a tentative hand against the ground just in time to feel the earth begin to roll under her palm.  A plume of smoke billows across the flat plain.  Its wispy tendrils reach out.  Initially, its grasp is light and delicate, curling around them, but, within moments, it has the group in a stranglehold. 

Hisana opens her mouth and tries desperately to pull air.  She struggles, but the impact squeezes the breath from her lungs.  It is no use.  Everything begins to shake—her body, her bones, even her teeth—as she braces for the outer ring of the shockwave to blast over them.

When it does, it takes every fiber to keep her chest up.  She feels as if the burst will crush her, but she manages to create a small protective barrier around herself with the force of her reiatsu.  It expends a great deal of her energy, and, once the quaking ceases, she feels as limp and as uncoordinated as a newborn deer taking its first steps.

“What the hell was that?” another engineer calls over the distant thundering roar of the explosion.

Hisana barely catches the question before tinnitus sets in, after which, all she can hear is a shrill high-pitch ringing in her head.  Futilely, she tries to muffle the noise with her hands, but it doesn’t assuage _anything_. 

Minutes, long and trying, pass before she can find the strength to compose herself.  With great effort, she rises and takes a few wobbly steps toward her servants, who are quick to steady her.

“Remember that data you promised me,” she calls back to the engineer.  Or, at least, she _thinks_ that is what she said because she cannot hear her own voice through the din in her head. 

The engineer nods, but she wonders whether he actually heard her.  He stares at her with the wide wild eyes and the vacant look of a baby bird that meets its first predator.  Shock has rendered him witless.

Before she leaves, she inclines her head and gazes back to the straw thatched roof. 

The cat is gone.

 _It is going to be a long day_ , Hisana thinks soberly to herself as one of the guards scoops her up and whisks her back to the manor.

* * *

 

The afternoon sun grips Rukia’s attention, and, once it has her, it yanks her to it, like a master snapping a dog’s leash. 

Biting her lip, Rukia scoots back.  _How unusual_ , she thinks as she spies her Brother and Sister in the garden.  They aren’t usually in residence yet. 

 _Oh, yeah._ She doesn’t want to think the words, but they invade her all the same.  _They are here because of me…_

She bites her bottom lip, dragging her teeth against the tender flesh in a slow movement.  _It’ll be fine_ , she tells herself, only half-believing the gentle platitude. 

In a flash, she feels her armor spring up around her, encasing her in nerves in a fine patina of ice. 

She strains her head just enough to peer out the door without looking like she is spying on her siblings.  She isn’t, she tells herself.  She is just enjoying the garden.  Yet, her eyes follow her sister and brother-in-law.  She can’t help it, she tells herself.  Their robes catch in the wind, and the couple flutters across the earth with the simple grace of blossoms falling from sakura. 

They are so _distracting_.

“What are you _doing_?” Renji’s chastising voice booms in her ears, and she immediately springs back as if the door has caught flame.

Her cheeks go scarlet, and her eyes widen. 

“Have you become a voyeur or something?” he teases, dropping into a lazy seiza on the cushion across from her. 

“I am _not_ a voyeur!” she protests, crossing her arms and quirking a brow at the very idea.  A voyeur!  She scoffs.  Just _whom_ does he think he is to make such pronouncements?  And, why must he make them so _loudly_?  Doesn’t he know the servants can hear him?

“What else do you call someone who peeps on someone else?” he asks into his tea bowl.  “Your own siblings, too.”  He gives a long disapproving shake of his head. 

Rukia’s expression hardens:  Her eyes narrow.  Her brows go askew, and her lips twist into a sneer.  “I _do not_ peep!” 

Peeping!  She is not a peeper!  She was just _observing_ the natural order of… _nature_.  Her sister and brother-in-law merely _wandered_ into her line of sight.  S’all. 

Renji’s gaze lifts to her.  His look is fleeting, but it conveys his amusement loudly and completely.  And, she takes umbrage at it.  So much umbrage!

“I was enjoying nature’s _majesty_ and sometimes Sister and Brother just get in the way!” she snaps out hastily, jerking her chin up and sighing.  “And so what if I watch them sometimes?  It’s not as if they _know_ or _care_.”

Renji cocks a brow, and his lips curve into a half-smile.  _Go on_ , his look practically begs her to continue.  _Here’s some more rope; hang yourself nicely, now._

“They kind of look like birds.  It’s like bird watching,” she trills in a flustered cadence.

His eyes go wide.  Shock sweeps across his face, contorting the lines of his features.  He shakes his head.  _Hard_.  Casting away the traces of disbelief that color his visage, he levels a bemused look her way.  “ _Birds_?”  His unspoken sentiment:  _Are you nuts?_

Rukia’s brows lower, and she defensively tosses her head to the side, descrying him with a sharp gaze.  “Yeah, _birds_ ,” she repeats, placing extra inflection on “birds.”

“Really?”  He sets his tea down and gives her a critical onceover. 

Clearly, they have moved beyond her alleged peeping activities and are now negotiating spirit animals for her siblings.  Rukia is somewhat taken aback that Renji _cannot see it_ , especially, when _it_ is so _obvious_. 

“Yeah, _birds_.  Just look at them,” she says, flinging the door to the side with a flick of her wrist.  “They are perched there like _birds_ on that _thing_ ,” she says and gestures to the paved bank around the diverted stream.  “Watching the water.  You know.  Like _birds_ do.”

Leaning forward, Renji cranes his head to catch an eyeful of the pair.  “Yeah,” he says in a low breath, “ _No._ ” 

He doesn’t say it, but she hears it all the same.  _Wrong, Rukia.  Dead wrong.  Wronger than wrong._

“Well, then, _mister_ , if not birds than what?”  She sets her eyes on stun mode as she watches him.  Her chin tucks to neck, and her fingers drum against the sides of her arms as she hugs herself haughtily. 

“ _Wolves_ ,” he says between sips of tea.  Allowing himself a moment to swallow, he elaborates, “Remember those two wolves on the left bank in Inuzuri?  We ran into them a few times.  They remind me of those wolves.”

Rukia’s eyes flick from Renji to her siblings.  Yeah, she remembers the wolves.  How could she forget?  They were _horrifying_ , sitting there _watching_ their little band of survivors as they fetched water from the river.  The wolves never did anything but _watch_ them.  But the threat of death was real.  Too real.

She shivers.

“I swear they were mates,” Renji says, lost in his recollection.  His gaze drifts up and to the left.  “Remember how they used to lay there, just in the thicket?  _Staring_ at us.  All curled around each other, _staring_.  Always felt like there was an understanding between us.”

Rukia shoots him an incredulous glance.  “Understanding?”  She clearly has no idea what _he’s_ talking about.  If there had been an _understanding_ , she definitely was not a party to it.

“Yeah, like a don’t-mess-with-us-and-we-won’t-mess-with-you kind of deal?”

Rukia shakes her head.  “More like a one-wrong-move-and-you’re-my-next-meal kind of deal.”

“Nah,” Renji says confidently.  “Together they could have eaten all of us if they wanted.  They didn’t.  They were just there.  Apex predators.  Seemed more interested in each other than us.”

“So that is Brother and Sister?” she asks, sharpening her glare.

He shrugs.  He seems okay with the assessment.

“So, you think they are _monsters_?”

His lips part and his expression goes blank.

“You just called them _monsters_!” she repeats again.  This time her voice hardens.

Thinking better of it, he grins and tilts his head to the side.  “I don’t think it would be the first time someone called them that.”

Rukia’s jaw goes slack, and she stares at him in surprise.  “Renji!  You take that back!” In a quick gesture, her hand snaps her folding fan shut, and she playfully smacks his shoulder with it.

He chortles and throws his hands up defensively against her light pummeling.  “Take it up with Captain Kurotsuchi!”  He catches her fan and smiles wryly as she struggles to free it from his grasp.   

She stops for a moment.  “Captain Kurotsuchi?” she echoes, clearly confused as to why _he_ would know what Captain _Kurotsuchi_ calls her siblings, let alone _care_.

“Yeah, he called your sister that.”

“To her face?” Rukia exclaims.  Again, how does _Renji_ know this and _not her_?  Of all people.  _Renji?_

“Yeah.”

“How do _you_ know?” she barks.  A smirk betokens her skepticism, but she waits for him to continue, biting her tongue all the while.

“Your sister hired me as a bodyguard the other day.”

“What?” she cries out in disbelief.  This is too much.  He is clearly just making things up now.

“Cripes, you two don’t talk a lot, do you?” he teases.

Rukia’s brows furrow at this.  “We do!  I was on assignment for the past few days, is all,” she spats defensively.

Why would Hisana hire Renji of all souls?  Then, she proceeds _not_ to tell her about it?  How does that make a lick of sense? 

“Well, she was going to the Twelfth to discuss a proposal,” he begins, but Rukia is quick to interrupt.

“Wait a minute, you mean Sister went to the Eleventh to fetch _you_ as a guard?”  Yep, she can’t get over it.  Can’t even imagine it, really.  The Eleventh is a perpetual testosterone-fueled Battle Royale, and Sister is so…feminine and _genteel_ , and, basically, the antithesis of the division.  No way Hisana _would_ or _could_ waltz into the Eleventh.  It would be like placing antique porcelain in a bullpen filled with raving mad _bulls_. 

Renji shakes his head and huffs.  “No, I was on break and saw her.  I went over to say, ‘hello,’ and she told me that was on her way to the Twelfth.”

“So you imposed yourself on her?” Rukia observes, laying the sarcasm on pretty thick.

“ _No_.  She seemed worried so I _offered_.  She gladly accepted, and we went to the Twelfth where she talked about some new gadget that she is working on with the Shihōin and Konoe family.  Some monitoring contraption.”

Rukia’s brows knit together.  “Why did she go to the Twelfth, then?”  Seems _strange_ to say the least.  Hisana is very protectionist when it comes to the family’s enterprises.  Mingling business interests with the Gotei 13 does not sound like something her sister would do _willingly_ and _unprovoked_.

“I didn’t get the sense that she _wanted_ to meet with Captain Kurotsuchi.  Seemed like it was the other way around.”

“Wait,” Rukia states, trying to wrap her head around what Renji is telling her, “So Captain Kurotsuchi requested an appointment with Sister?  To discuss some sort of infrastructure-building tool?”

“Sounds like _more_ than an infrastructure-building tool.  Or, at least, _he_ thinks it has military R &D applications.  She managed to negotiate some contract to limit the Gotei 13’s use of the technology.”  Renji shrugs slightly.  “As long as she does not open the door to weaponizing the technology, they can’t take it under eminent domain.”  He takes another sip from his tea bowl.  “It was a pretty boring meeting.”

Rukia nods slightly.  “Uh,” she murmurs.  “I suppose that is fair.” 

“Didn’t seem like Lady Hisana was too keen on the idea, but she signed on behalf of the Kuchikis.  Wonder what Captain Kuchiki thinks.”

 _Brother_ … 

As much time as Hisana spends on building the family’s interests and maintaining its grip on the emerging trade routes, Rukon infrastructure, and, more importantly, _profits_ , Byakuya spends the _inverse_ amount of time on those concerns.  In fact, Rukia is sure her brother _despises_ the business end of his family duties, assigning almost all of it to Sister.  Hisana is very good at it, at least.  Her shrewdness is why he can get away with shirking all the responsibility despite his aunt’s persistent rebukes.

Briefly, Rukia wonders if there is a cost to her brother eschewing his duties. 

Hisana seems content to have a _purpose_ even if it amounts to being little more than the Family’s employee of sorts. 

But, her sister consorts with only men, and powerful men, at that.  It must be a strange and uncomfortable world to navigate. Lonely, too.  

Rukia wouldn’t trade places with her sister.  Not for a second. 

“I think Brother is perfectly happy to let her run those things,” Rukia replies at length.

Renji frowns into his tea.  “Seems like a lot.”

“She’s a _monster_ , remember?” Rukia notes, drily. “She can handle it.”   

* * *

 

They walk through the garden together.  Her hand presses tightly against his.  Their fingers, interlaced.  He feels the warmth radiate from her small palms, and it draws him from his dark and troubled thoughts. 

He supposes it was her intention. 

She is at her steadiest when he wavers.  She is at her calmest during his moods, of which there are many.  With a warm smile and an even warmer heart, she soothes him.  She smoothes down his ruffled feathers without a second thought.

His wife has become a fine detector of sorts.  She is sensitive, perceiving his fault lines before the earthquake.  She sees the storm before it reaches the horizon.  And, even when her best efforts fail her, she is always there for him, never frightened, and ever steady.

She waits with a patient ear for him to begin, and, when he cannot find the words, she is ready to supply the conversation.  “I thought the fresh air would prove relaxing.”

 _Of course_.

She keeps the conversation light, focusing on what surely belies her motives:  To bring him peace.  She is always trying to cultivate a sense of tranquility for him, from the freshly prepared tea to the quiet melodies that she strums at his request. 

She has lost herself, he thinks.  So thoroughly has she thrown herself into her duties and into the image of being the perfect wife, she has forgotten why he married her in the first place.

For a glimpse, he catches the woman he married as she tilts her head to the side.  Her violet eyes reflect the burnt oranges and yellows of the sun as it begins to dip below the horizon.   Her gaze is astute, but it is comforting.   She sees him as he wishes to be seen, flaws and all, and she has nothing but love for him, flaws and all.

His heart swells with the strange ineffable feeling that only she ever seems to elicit.  It is profuse, overwhelming.  It heats the soul, and it provokes the heart. 

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. 

He wishes he could find the words.  He has been searching for _decades_ , trying his best to compose a verse, a sonnet, _anything_ , really, that describes the way she makes him feel.  But, he always turns up wanting, and he refuses the platitudes that fill his head. 

She deserves more. 

He lowers his head, and he watches her longingly.  “How was your day?”  How uninspiring.

Hisana meets his question with a radiant smile.  “It was busy.”  She means it earnestly enough, but, ultimately, the reply falls flat in her delivery.

A prevarication, he observes.  The telltale signs are present:  Her lips twitch, her eyes trail to the ground, and her brows furrow.  She digests her own, likely captious, commentary for his sake. 

She is always editing herself.

It is a painful sight.

He wants to remind her of his promise; the one that he made to her so many years ago.  _There will be no more debts._   He meant it then, and he means it now.

But, she is stubborn.

“You mentioned there has been signal loss recently,” he digresses before silence has the chance to stifle their budding conversation.

She lifts her head and nods.  “Yes.”

“Have you discerned the cause?”

Her lips press together, and she draws in a long breath.  Again, she composes, and, again, she revises.  Her small chest expands, and she lets out a long breath.  He knows she is structuring her thoughts, sterilizing them. 

“Not definitively.”  Boldly, she fixes him with a probing look.  “However, the break in signal is atypical,” she says, lowering her defenses just enough to allow him entry.

He seizes the opportunity.  “How so?”

“The disruptions do not occur near the towers.  The break happens in the middle.  It is clean and synchronous, like someone is cutting the threads all at once.” 

Her gaze darkens, and he notes the worriment building in her stare.  

“Every fifth hour, the lines break, rendering the system inoperative for at least 25 minutes.”  She allows herself a small frown before she finishes her conclusion, “It seems _intentional_.”

Byakuya clenches his jaws, and he turns his gaze to the middle distance. 

Hisana’s assessment concerns him on many levels.  While it would explain some of the project’s unexpected peculiarities, such as the increase in hollow attacks, it also unleashes a host of problems and questions.  If it is intentional, then who is behind the tampering?  Why?  How long? 

These are questions in which he does not wish to involve his wife.

“I would omit that assessment from the ethics inquiry next week,” he states matter-of-factly.

Hisana bows her head.  “Lord Shihōin will be presenting the project.  He will likely report on the disturbances with some specificity, but he will omit the hypothesis as to cause,” she says cautiously.  Her gaze flicks to him before flittering back to the ground.  “I think it will prove insightful.”

Byakuya’s features harden.  He has no doubt it will. 

“If someone is intentionally tampering with the towers, then that person likely has intimate knowledge of the project’s blueprints,” she observes.

“You anticipate a change in the interruptions’ schedule, after the inquiry, then” he states in ruthless deadpan.

She nods. 

“The signal loss will become randomized once the target realizes you know.”

“A small price,” she states quietly.

“If the signal loss becomes randomized?”

Apprehension writes it way across her face, and she furrows her brow.  “I don’t know which problem will be more difficult to solve:  How we prevent tampering, or how we go about discerning the motives and identity of the person tampering with the system.”

“The latter will prove to be the more treacherous,” he observes icily.

“Yes, milord.  Undoubtedly so.”   

“Find and groom a replacement, Hisana.”

Her head bobs up, and a look of horror colors her face.  She was not expecting his reaction.  To be truthful, neither was he.  But, there it is.  He cannot deny his feelings toward the matter, and, as the Head of the House, he is allowed moments of entitlement.  This one in particular has been a long time coming. 

“It is a command,” he states sternly before adding, “I will attend the meeting next week on the family’s behalf.”

Hisana’s lips part, but she keeps her tongue still.  In fact, she seems somewhat relieved at his offer.  “Yes, milord,” she says.  “A prudent move.”

Briefly, he wonders if she has been carefully maneuvering him all along.  Likely, not, he thinks.  Which only begs the question:  If she is not manipulating him, how long has she wanted to extricate herself from this enterprise?  Has he been so blind, so self-absorbed, that he has failed his wife somehow?  Has he overburdened her?

“Rukia’s demonstration is today,” Hisana observes, shrewdly diverting course. 

Byakuya eyes her.  No.  She cannot unknot the threads of worry that have begun to ball in his brain so easily.  But, he will oblige her if only to lighten the mood.  “Yes.”

Hisana smiles to herself.  “Is there a particular reason for this demonstration?”

She has an inkling, he is sure.  Her coy glance tells him as much.  “Not yet,” he states. 

“But there will be?  At some unspecified time?” she teases.

“Perhaps.”

Her smile widens, and she links her arm through his.  “How unkind to keep secrets from your wife.”

Her smile proves infectious, but he refuses her invitation to expound all the same.  “In time.” 

* * *

 

Rukia swallows so hard that she nearly chokes on her own spit.

 _Almost_.

She manages to salvage her dignity and composure at the last minute.  Thanks be to the Soul King.  Or to the gods.  Every single one of them. 

 _Steady_ , she chants the word inside her head, but, try as she might, she cannot train the tremor from her hand.  It is imperceptible to most, she knows.  Only an expert eye would be able to discern the slight wavering motion.

Unfortunately, she is holding an audience with only _experts_. 

Her brother, Vice Captain Shiba, her Third Seat, and her sister all gather to watch her release.  Two of the four are mostly there to scrutinize her, to search for errors and to make corrections.  Neither Kaien nor Brother is known for his mastery of _tact_.

Reflexively, her eyes find Hisana and Miyako.  Both watch her with warm maternal expressions; she can almost feel their encouragement wash over her.  Her gaze lingers with them for a few moments, hoping their good will proves to be the needle that can sew together her tattered equanimity. 

It doesn’t work. 

It was worth the attempt, she decides before glimpsing her bickering mentors.  Well, they aren’t bickering _at the moment_ , which is an _improvement_ since neither Kaien nor Brother seems to miss the opportunity to lob a barbed comment in the other’s direction.

 _Maybe they aren’t even paying attention to me_ , Rukia prays, knowing all too well she is _wrong_.  Byakuya and Kaien may have their differences—a whole slew of them if Rukia is keeping score—but they do appear to be _competent_ enough to work through their strange rivalry when need be.  Like right then. 

Unsheathing her Zanpakutō, Rukia bows her head politely and inhales a deep breath. 

She can do this.  She knows she can do this.  She has done it a thousand times by now.

“Dance, Sode no Shirayuki,” Rukia summons her Zanpakutō.  With as much grace as she can muster, she holds her sword in front of her and turns the blade in an elegant counter-clockwise motion.  The sword’s color bleeds away, leaving only a pure white.  “Next Dance, White Ripple.”  As soon as she calls out her second dance, the one she has only recently mastered, she punctures the ground four times in an orderly semicircle.  She then quickly assumes her battle stance and releases an artic burst deep into the empty cavern. 

Sealing her sword, she bows demurely and sheathes her blade.  She is barely up straight when Kaien and Byakuya begin arguing over her technique.  Their words bleed together as they try to make their equally astute and learned explanations only for the other to rebut with equally astute and learned explanations.

Hisana and Miyako, however, both rise to congratulate Rukia on her hard work. 

“Your release is so lovely, Rukia,” Miyako gushes sweetly.  “The whiteness of your blade, your hilt, and your guard is so pure.  It is quite remarkable.”

“Yes, I’d say it out pretties Senbonzakura,” Hisana whispers, leaning her head in slightly and giving her sister a sly wink. 

“Thank you,” Rukia murmurs. 

Unconsciously, she sinks into herself.  Her chin tucks toward her neck, and her shoulders lift defensively against the kind words.  It touches her.  It truly does.  But, she has never really learned the art of taking a complement.

Hisana throws her arms around her sister’s shoulders and pulls her in for a hug. 

“Oh my!” Hisana exclaims and quickly retreats.  Her embrace loosens, and, worriedly, Hisana examines Rukia, “You are _freezing_.  Are you alright?”

The room’s barometric pressure plummets.  Everything goes still.  Even the cavern dares not to usher in as much as a _draft_.

Both Kaien and Byakuya stare blankly at Rukia.

Obviously, Hisana’s observation triggers a possibility neither one of them remembered to consider.  

“It is fine, Sister,” Rukia assures Hisana. 

Before Rukia can utter another soothing word, Byakuya has one of her hands in his.  He palpates the flesh before drawing his conclusion—a conclusion that both he and Kaien reach at the exact moment.  Both promptly decide to share their conclusion with absolutely no one.

Hisana shoots the two a stare that could flay flesh, and she gives a long headshake.  The headshake of disapprobation, Rukia notes.  She has never been on the receiving end of one of those, but Brother has. 

Byakuya stares dispassionately ahead, which only proves to unsettle Hisana further.  Exhaling a haughty breath, Hisana turns to Rukia.  “Are you sure, Sister?” Hisana remains unconvinced, and she kisses the top of Rukia’s head, checking her temperature.  “It’s getting a little better,” she murmurs, rubbing warmth into Rukia’s shoulders. 

“Yes, Sister,” Rukia says gently, “I am warming up just as expected.”

Concern darkens Hisana’s eyes.  No amount of reassurance will persuade her.  “Is that normal, Lord Byakuya?” Hisana asks pointedly.

Byakuya lifts his head, but his lips remain sealed.  Rukia has a sinking feeling that he is parsing his words and ordering his thoughts so as not to horrify his beloved wife.  “It is not typical,” he says, refusing to borrow the value-laden word, “normal.” 

“Will it injure her?” Hisana insists, quick to pounce on her husband’s evasive language.

Byakuya and Kaien exchange apprehensive glances.  Both don the tarnished innocence of a small child caught with his hand in the sweets bowl, and, for once in their relatively long lives, the unlikely pair stands in cautious solidarity. 

“It is unlikely that harm will come to her if she properly learns to control her technique,” Byakuya explains. 

Hisana’s eyes narrow.

“She is strong,” Kaien interjects.  “She is very strong and swift.”

Hisana’s eyes drift from her husband to Kaien.  She does not seem particularly thrilled with either one, but she does not pursue her inquisition.  Instead, she turns to Rukia and pulls her into a tight embrace. 

For a moment, Rukia swears she can hear her sister’s heart stop.

It is the sound of release. 

Of letting go.


End file.
